


Toujours Impur

by maraudersmarryme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Gay Regulus Black, I'm Bad At Tagging, Jegulus Week 2021 | Starchaser Week 2021, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Mutual Pining, No Smut, No Underage Sex, POV Regulus Black, Pining, Requited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Young James Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maraudersmarryme/pseuds/maraudersmarryme
Summary: Happy (belated) Jegulus week! To celebrate, here's a stupidly short oneshot from 5th year Regulus' POV.Just before the Slytherin VS Gryffindor quidditch final, James notices that Regulus seems off and follows him into the changing rooms to find out what's going on.Note- no smut, no underage sex. Makes me incredibly uncomfortable.Second note- fuck JKR and her transphobia.
Relationships: Regulus Black/James Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	Toujours Impur

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for your support. I love these two idiots, and writing this put me in a ridiculously good mood! I have loads more ideas for oneshots like this, or maybe even a longer fic, so I'd be super grateful for any feedback on this (pronouns are she/her.) Much more to come, hopefully. For now, enjoy! And a very happy International Jegulus Week from me. 
> 
> (Also- some bad language involved, but nothing worse than the F word, just as a heads up)

“Reg?”

He is all dark curls and warm tones and honey and sea salt. All too much and then, somehow, never enough. 

“Fuck off, Potter. Not right now.”

I turn and study the shower door, anything, anywhere but him. A drizzle of water snakes its way down the faded tiles, and I watch as it falls further and further, as it disappears. 

My jaw is locked shut, I don’t dare breathe. This is how it has always been- the fire ablaze just meters away from me, bright, pulsating, magnificent, and I can only stand there. I can only watch. The lion’s den, the snake pit; courage, ambition; Mother, Sirius. I just watched as she did her worst. Toujours pur, Regulus.

“The game’s about to kick off, mate. The others would murder me for saying this but...you’re the best bloody seeker of the season, ok?” He smiles. “And I like good competition.”

I turn and face him, daring myself to hold his gaze for a few seconds. James Potter is a frenzy of intensity and passion and nonchalance, achingly compassionate, unimaginably fucking beautiful. I find myself wishing that I was my brother, not for the first time; wishing that he could be undoubtedly mine. Let me go back, beg the Sorting Hat to change its mind, be with him always.

He meets my gaze, but, as usual, his expression is unreadable. He weakens me.

“What is it?” He is firmer now, furrowed brows, unfaltering eye-contact. I picture a fine, shimmering thread connecting us, heart to heart. We would find each other in any lifetime. 

Fuck this. He can always get the truth out of me.

‘Mother.’ It is whispered, almost too quiet to hear. He doesn’t need to though, not really; he knows. 

The letter had arrived this morning, over breakfast. She must have chosen today, knowing about the match, knowing that I would be distracted and vulnerable- a spider lying in wait for its prey to get lost in her web. I read it once, twice, a third time, memorising the loops of her ‘l’s and her signature at the bottom. Maybe the worst thing was that she had signed it with her full name. ‘Walburga Black.’ I am not really her son, just a problem, just something that she deals with. She is not my mother. 

Regulus Black, 

The time has come for you to become a man. Tomorrow, you will meet with Bellatrix for an evening meal in preparation for your initiation. Your brother is a lost cause, thus your early enlistment. The Dark Lord requires as much manpower as is physically possible, and I have assured him that you will not hesitate to put your name forward. You will not let us down, Regulus, or I will be forced to use some of my more persuasive techniques. Toujours pur.

Walburga Black. 

Closer and closer and closer. I think of the depth behind that word. 'Mother'. It is pain and joy and hunger for power. It is ice cold, venomous contempt. It is a tribute to all things lost that could have been; embraces that were never shared, achievements never celebrated, a life of nurture never lived. 'Mother'. Funny that she is bringing us closer, and not just in the sense that he is moving towards me now. Oh shit he is moving towards me now. I almost laugh. 

Outside, the faint sound of cheers erupts from the stands, muffled chatter lost through the walls of the changing room. I look away, he doesn’t. There is a funny expression on his face. I have studied him for hours, the way he laughs with his head thrown back and mouth open, the light in his eyes after he scores, how he bites his lip ever-so-slightly when he’s concentrating. I have never seen this look before so I let myself believe it, only for a second.

I realise that this is unfair of me, and go against my better judgement. 

“Anyway, don’t let me stop you. Go and win it.” Go and soar. How I love to watch you. 

Now we are inches apart and I can see him, all of him. 

It’s quiet in here, save for the occasional cheer of the crowd in the distance. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t move. Why won’t he say something? I need to get lost in his words, let them echo incessantly inside my mind, shut my eyes and etch them into my memory to be scribbled down onto pages of parchment paper later on in the silence of the night. I want to remember every single word he ever says to me: I can’t ever forget.

Finally, he smiles. “I won’t leave without you. Just fly and leave it behind, everything.”

His smile fades and his eyes flick towards my lips for a fraction of a second, one precious, fleeting moment. I stop pretending that I don’t know.

‘James.’ It’s not a question. 

His breath is grazing my skin, his Adam's apple bouncing as he swallows, and then his mouth is on mine and his hands are in my hair and I am melting deep into him. 

I am him, he is me, I am him, he is me. Desperation and loneliness and guilt and terror, one body, one mind. Always him. The feel of his fingertips on my skin, senses heightened, millions of interconnected nerves alive and buzzing with him, him, him. Have me, have all of me. Toujours impur, Mother.


End file.
